Are You Living in the Real World?
by magfrump
Summary: The only fic from the distant past that doesn't make me cringe to read. That isn't to say that it's good. Keeping for luminosity purposes.
1. No Beat

Disclaimer: I don't own Jet, or the woo-long  
  
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Daryl tapped his toe gently to the music. His white tuxedo blended in well in the old-fashioned jazz club. He picked at the meticulous design, wasted on the pitch-black buttons. Quickly pulling at his bow tie with his left hand, he took another sip of the colorless drink, sticking his tongue a short way into the glass to push back the ice cubes and absorb the small particles floating in it. The bartender, wearing a classic white dress shirt with big buttons and no jacket, leaned over to him.  
  
"You gonna get another drink, or just sit sipping on that for another two hours?" The bartender questioned, ruffling his heavily gelled mustache. Daryl glanced at the clock. He had been here two hours. Time sure flies. His drink had less than half an inch of liquid in it.  
  
"I'm probably just gonna sit here. Why?" Daryl suppressed a smile; there was nothing the bartender could do. Daryl was the longest standing customer in the One Way Mirror-he'd sat for a glass of ouzo on the fourth stool from the left every night but Tuesdays for 3 years. No one had ever asked what he did on Tuesdays. Because of this, Daryl was individually responsible for one eighth of the bar's yearly revenue. They couldn't touch him.  
  
The bartender frowned and thought for a moment before replying. "We close at two." He leaned over to grab a bottle-malt, Daryl noticed-and pour himself a drink. Daryl mentally noted that he preferred malted whiskey, and closed his eyes for another sip of ouzo.  
  
A small TV in the corner above the other side of the bar displayed a cowboy and cowgirl cheerfully describing mass murderers for hot shot bounty hunters all around the world to listen closely to and run out to waste their life trying to make big bucks and help 'protect the galaxy.' Daryl tensed momentarily, then relaxed. It wasn't as if he didn't understand being--young. Or naïve, or however one would say it. He understood all too well. Perhaps that's why he hated it. Daryl breathed deeply, tuned the show out, relaxed, and started tapping his foot to the music.  
  
Miho glided purposefully into the One Way Mirror. A few people turned to look at her out of place clothing-an over-modernized, translucent, dark gray top, sleeveless, with large Vs down the front and back and skin tight fish net leggings, covered by a long off-white kimono with purple lining-but she ignored them. Brushing a few strands of her black hair from, her immediate vision, she slowly maneuvered her way to the seat next to the man in the white tuxedo.  
  
"Does the band ever play anything good?" Miho was impatient with the classy style of the jazz musicians; in fact, she had never been much for music.  
  
"They do if you listen the right way." Daryl was impatient with most of the new cowboys-because they were impatient with life. They had to be; in their profession one moment lost can mean ten thousand woo-longs. Taking a suspicious glance, Daryl reflected on the newb's appearance. "Nice to see they're recruiting from Japan again. Still, you should be more careful. If you always dress that way, they'll figure you out. You don't want them after you."  
  
"Let them come. Sometimes I prefer a straight fight to all this sneaking around. But the old man told me to come here." Miho soured at the insult to her dress. Jet had told her to be ready for anything, but she had expected challenges, not insults. "You watch this show a lot?" She indicated the TV in the corner. She guessed it a safe question: he was the biggest bounty-head knowledge source in the galaxy.  
  
"No. I hate it." Daryl sipped the last of his ouzo. He wondered how long they would take to respond to that. His left hand snuck towards the old rose in his jacket. Still not wilting.  
  
A crash shook the wall opposite the band. The dozen or so patrons still remaining quickly bundled up their jackets, rushing with a practiced fear behind the bandstand. Miho stood, pulling her well-concealed wakizashi cleanly from her kimono. The band kept playing.  
  
Daryl smiled slightly as another crash shook the plaster free from the wall of the One Way Mirror. The bartender sipped his malt. A third crash cleanly broke a large hole in the wall, revealing a huge, overtly muscular greenish humanoid. Short, frivolous spikes protruded from its spine and forearms, making the androgynous figure even more menacing. Sliding easily through the hole into the bar, the creature looked directly at Miho.  
  
Miho leapt into the air as the monstrous person came tumbling down upon her seat. Daryl quickly scooted his bar stool to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed. He sipped on the melted ice.  
  
Coming down quickly with the force of her initial leap, strengthened slightly by focus of her chi, Miho brought her short, slightly curved sword through the torso of the humanoid. Rolling out of the way quickly, it avoided most of the blow, but still received a large gash in its side. Spinning to deliver a horrendous roundhouse to Miho, sending her flying into the wall, next to the hole it had made, it smiled slightly as the gash closed.  
  
Miho recovered from the blow before she hit the wall, squashing her legs against it and rebounding with the normal force. Falling short of the greenish man's estimate, she rolled beneath his figure, delivering an instant, painful blow to his spine with her recovery.  
  
Paralyzed below the waist momentarily, the creature was unable to respond to a second decisive slice, separating his head cleanly from his body.  
  
"Sometimes I think I would prefer a straight fight, too," Daryl said plainly, not looking up from his empty glass. "But I am generally wrong."  
  
Miho breathed deeply to calm her heart rate. The band finished a song and began a new, more energetic tune. The patrons returned to their seats, talking casually about their former subjects. The bartender began dragging the humanoid's dead body behind the counter.  
  
"Why didn't you help me?" Miho was getting impatient with this mysterious man. Jet said he would help her. He didn't seem very helpful to her.  
  
"It would've been too easy. Besides," Daryl looked up finally, revealing to Miho his brilliant, twinkling eyes, and a small, cocky smile, indicating a meaning they both knew immediately.  
  
"No Beat." The band finished playing the song. Daryl turned back to his empty glass. 


	2. Fool's Paradise

I don't think that I actually mentioned Jet in that last chapter...  
  
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"So, you're after something big this time, eh?" Lunar crinked his neck, still staring at his computer screen. He put his hands on his lap; that usually meant he was doing something hard.  
  
"What do you care? You never seem to move from that spot." Miho grabbed a half-pint of milk from the fridge.  
  
"Hidoi desuka, Miho-chan?" Lunar rolled his eyes and brought his hands back to the keyboard.  
  
"Hidoi desu, Runaa-san. Aru hi ni, otomagoi o shimasuyo." Miho sighed and started searching the ground next to the fridge. There was usually something left there.  
  
"You know I don't speak Japanese." Lunar continued to stare intently at his screen and type furiously.  
  
"Shall I write it down, then? Stick it in one of your RPGs?" At last! Some pocky... natto-flavored... was she seriously that hungry? Well, she'd had worse.  
  
"No thanks, I'm busy."  
  
"Well, so am I. See you later." Miho sniffed the back. Open. Only half of the sticks left.  
  
"See ya."  
  
"You probably won't; you'll still be typing." Miho stuck a stick in her mouth and stepped out of the kitchen.  
  
"If that's the way you want to see things, there's nothing I can do to stop you." Miho rolled her eyes, stepping out of the rec room (aka the only room with a TV and computer) and into the access hallway.  
  
Finishing off the last of the pocky, Miho tossed the carton away and tugged at her tight purple jeans. Grabbing a short, light blue jacket from a rack next to the door to the hangar, she turned to her rover.  
  
A Gu-tech 8300 series Mull-Rover. Worth as much as everything else on the ship combined. From 2079, GIS/GPS integrated, 1.3 therahertz CPU for partial star jumps and infrared viewscreens. All the extras; sub-ether radio, DSK read/write capable, adjustable pressurization, AC/Heat, auto-mapping, everything.  
  
Completely, utterly, out of fuel. Still took HydroLith 1700 fuel cells, now out of production.  
  
Miho sighed and walked past it to the junky Munder 120 Scout occupying the other half of the hangar. Heh. Hangar. more of a Really Big Room than a hangar. The exit was a window that had been made larger for the small crafts to get thru. Really just a big waste of space, considering what they had. On the other hand, the shipping freighter was huge. Well, big. It was even nicer than a few of the commercial bounty models. That, of course, was no reason not to complain.  
  
At least the Scout was handling well today. She wouldn't be able to take it if it was rattling like it usually did. Not that she could do anything if it was... they didn't have enough money to repair it... or even to dock the freighter to try and get food. The Scout wasn't just their only craft with any maneuverability, it was also their only way to get groceries.  
  
Miho wondered casually who she'd have to sleep with to get ahead in this business.  
  
Probably that horse-riding samurai freak.  
  
What she wouldn't give to go back to the good old days...  
  
Bounty hunting. The big-time. The easy way.  
  
"It's a fool's paradise, and there's no way out."  
  
The Scout dropped quickly into the atmosphere of Ganymede. 


	3. Not An Angel

Few people remembered these days. Very few people. Reed remembered. Reed had told Daryl, time and time again, of the twentieth century. In his youth, Daryl had been so curious. So many young people are so curious. 

What happens to them?

Chapter Three -

"I used to ride home on a bus. Long, yellow, two-person seats on each side of a center aisle. Thirteen seats deep. And the bus driver would yell at the kids. And the kids would only pay attention to the bus driver if she stopped the bus, or if they wanted her to change the radio station. Probably the most thankless job ever; you don't get to talk with the kids like a teacher, you don't get to see them succeed, you just see the worst of them while they're eager to get home, chatting with their friends, complaining about homework and their teenage problems. It'd be tough to be a bus driver. "Then we'd get off the bus, and the stoners would hang around and smoke cigarettes, and I'd walk home, and maybe I'd talk with the two or three people I knew who got off at the same stop as me, and then I'd be home. "And I always wanted to get home. When you got up in the morning, you didn't want to get out of bed. When you were in the first period or two of the day, you'd be sleepy, and wish you could go home and go back to bed. Later, you were bored and hungry, and wanted to get home to eat and play video games. Then there was lunch, when you got together with your friends and ate and complained about not being at home. And then the end of the day, when you're giddy from having eaten, and anxious to get home.  
"But then you got home. And either your parents were there, so they started giving you things to do, or they weren't, so you did homework or lazed around. Not very fulfilling.  
"I've thought about it. I've had a lot of time and not much to do, as you know, except think, so I thought about it. I always wondered why we were so anxious to get home. Since we never did anything more exciting there than at school, I never saw its allure. I still wanted to get home, of course, but I wondered why.  
"I guess it must be a security thing. You always stayed home when you were young. And you were safe. And you didn't have to worry. And you didn't have to do things. Or strive, or achieve, or do homework, or think about your future, you just had to look cute and everyone was happy. Smile and laugh and maybe suck on your thumb, and everyone's mesmerized.  
"Whatever teenagers say, I think that's really all they want. They want to be back, sucking on their moms' tits, having no responsibilities, just being able to do whatever they want. And I'm sure they'll agree with me.  
"The problem is, our society doesn't let people just do what they want.  
"So that's my new question.  
"What keeps us from obeying our Id more closely? Even my superego rebelled against the idiotic "virtues" that they try to force into you in school. I saw no merit to it, and I see very little in it now. The real advantage, it seems to me, is that for the purposes of being philanthropic, as everyone tried to be those days, it's much easier to group people into large categories and stereotypes, and not worry about whether you're actually helping them, just whether you appear to be.  
"So noone was really philanthropic enough to try and solve that. They just wanted people to think they were nice."  
The old man sighed. Daryl sure had grown since they'd last talked. The curiosity had left him. He didn't watch intent with excitement, just with politeness. But the old man smiled. At least this one still listened. And it looked like he'd had a pretty woman with him. "You're a great guy, stopping by to see an old man. Letting him tell you his boring old stories. I know it's a busy new world out there."  
Daryl smiled back, in the same, sighing manner.  
"I'm not an angel. Just paying respects to an old friend."  
"I appreciate it." The old man sighed and went to sleep. Daryl wondered how he could do it so fast for a moment, then stood up, shaking off the slight discomfort that came with those lame hospital chairs. Turning to leave the room, Daryl stopped to look back over his shoulder, and wink at the guy.  
"Good night, Reed."  
"Who was that, anyway?" Asked Miho, as they walked back to the small ship they'd come to Mars in.  
"Just an old friend." said Daryl dismissively, reaching into his jacket.  
"It's good of you to stop and see him," Miho noted, looking back at the hospital.  
"I'm not an angel. He's just a friend. He needs someone to talk to." The rose had begun to wilt. Just slightly around the edges of the petals, but his senstitive fingers noticed it.  
Then why get so defensive? Miho thought. Not that she thought she'd ever get any real emotion out of him. Besides, he was fingering his rose again. Whatever that meant.


End file.
